Bone Key

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  Now, though, the house was empty.

  He didn't know what to do.

  "Excuse me, Captain?" said the voice of the man from the mortuary.

  Turning around, he saw a tall young man with dark hair and hazel eyes. "Yes?"

  "We're ready to take your wife."

  Sam...

  ... he stood watching the munitions factory burn, the acrid smell burning his nostrils. He ran toward the building, looking for survivors to take back to his ambulance. He'd only just arrived in Milan, having volunteered to serve as an ambulance driver for the Red Cross.

  Paris had been bad enough, with Jerry's shells blasting all around them as he and his friends tried to sightsee, but then this...

  He ran toward the fire, finding only the dead. When he saw the corpse of a girl, it brought him up short.

  War was men's work. There shouldn't have been girls here. Young men died in war, he knew that. Only eighteen years of age, he had volunteered as an ambulance driver—despite the fool at the Red Cross who insisted that he needed spectacles—in order to help both the living and the dead who fought in this Great War. Those who were wounded needed help, and those who died deserved proper burials, not having their corpses left on a battlefield.

  Getting to his knees, he got the girl's body away from the fire. She was dead, but that was no reason to desecrate her further.

  He was directed to an improvised mortuary that had been hastily assembled near the burned-out remains of the factory. No matter how many bodies he and the others brought back, it always seemed there were more, men and girls alike.

  Then he ran back and found a familiar-looking young man in a soldier's uniform. He had unusually shaggy brown hair under his helmet and hazel eyes that stared blankly at the smoky sky.

  Sam...

  * * *

  ... he loved flirting with the tourists of both sexes when they came into the shop. Even after he was diagnosed with HIV, and even after he started losing weight and the crap broke out on his skin, he stayed on the job, selling silly T-shirts and sillier souvenirs to the tourists on Duval Street. Marty said he could keep working as long as he could stand upright. Based on the way he'd been coughing his lungs out, it wouldn't be for much longer.

  But he was determined to make the most of it.

  One tall drink of water came sauntering in, with shaggy brown hair and just to die for hazel eyes, and he came right up to him. "Can I help you?"

  "I'm looking for a T-shirt for my brother."

  Sam...

  ... he only felt alive when he was writing. Sitting at the kitchen table in the tiny cottage he rented, the fountain pen his aunt had given him in his hand, the notebook in front of him, and the verses just flowing.

  He'd only gotten a few of his poems published, and it hardly paid the bills, but he didn't care, as long as he could write. All day, he would do his work as a janitor at the courthouse, but at night, he wrote his poems, and he was alive.

  There was a knock at the door. "Hey, it's me. Got a package for ya."

  He got up to open the door and saw the UPS guy. But he had shaggier hair, and was taller.

  Sam...

  ... she loved the crowds more than anything. Sure, sometimes they didn't tip well, and sometimes they forgot to applaud, and sometimes they were downright rude, and sometimes they requested "Free Bird" for the eight millionth time, but overall, playing guitar in the Bull was just a great experience.

  Tonight, though, was pretty dead. She plucked away at her Takamine acoustic that had gone with her to every gig. After finishing playing "Me and Julio Down By the Schoolyard" for the couple at the front table, she noticed that somebody else had come in, sitting at the bar: a tall guy, hunched over a lite beer.

  She asked, "Any requests?"

  "You know 'Brown-Eyed Girl,' lady?"

  Sam...

  They kept coming at him. Dean thought he would lose himself in the dead.

  Mel Fisher, the famous treasure-seeker. Althea McNamara, a teenager who committed suicide after being gang-raped. Raymond, the doll who'd attacked them at Cayo Hueso, who turned out to be possessed by a nineteenth-century sorcerer named Caleb Dashwood. President Harry S Truman, after he dropped the A-bomb on Japan. Ernest Hemingway, when he volunteered for the Red Cross in World War I. José Sandoval, a gay store worker who died of AIDS. Jonathan Gomez, a poet. Bonnie Bowers, a Duval Street musician who died in a diving accident.

  And so many more...

  But Dean focused on Sam. No matter what, he had to save Sam, and that enabled Dean to get the dead under control.

  When he did so, Dean felt it.

  It was a rush like nothing he'd ever experienced. Better than the highest high, a bigger thrill than anything Dean could imagine. The entire world was at his fingertips. Even though the spirits were remnants of the dead, what Dean took from them was their joys, their hopes, their dreams, their doubts, their confusion, their grief, their anguish, their love, their hate, their lives.

  All of it coursing through Dean.

  He thought he'd felt alive before, but he was oh so wrong. While their lives were pretty miserable much of the time, Dean still got a rush from the hunt, from the destruction of evil, from the saving of lives. But that rush suddenly paled in comparison. It was like he had been color-blind his whole life, and suddenly could see every hue in a prism. He didn't just see the street, the construction site, the sky, the ocean—he saw everything. The electric currents running through power lines. Radio waves moving through the air. Ley lines coursing through the earth.

  The first thing he did was project this new power onto the wards the Last Calusa had put up, shattering them with a flash of light.

  Unsurprisingly, that got the Last Calusa's attention. The spirit appeared before Dean.

  "Hey, Tonto," Dean said with a wicked grin. "You impressed yet?"

  NINETEEN

  The Last Calusa remembered.

  For many seasons, the Calusa were the mightiest warriors. The Last Calusa remembered that because it was the reason for their vengeance. It was their reason for being.

  The outsiders came, and the Calusa rejected them. The worst were their priests—"missionaries," they called themselves—who tried to turn them to the way of their one god. They even went so far as to insist that the eye soul of their god's only son and another eye soul of indeterminate origin were, along with their god, simply a different face of the Three Gods.

  But the Calusa rejected their god. The Calusa thanked the Three Gods for what they granted. The outsiders simply begged their god for forgiveness for their transgressions. Worse, their god granted it, giving them free rein to commit more transgressions, secure in the knowledge that their weak and feeble god would still accept them if they bent their knee to him.

  Worse, the outsiders knew nothing of the spirit world. Oh, they claimed to believe in two different afterworlds of the dead, one for those who transgressed, one for those who did not, and they all hoped to get into the latter so their eye souls would not suffer.

  When the Last Calusa began their task, they learned that the outsiders had won the day, and taken over the land that once was the exclusive purview of the Calusa. They knew even less of the spirit world than they had before.

  The dark spirits tried to control the Last Calusa, to turn them to their foul ways, but the Last Calusa's vengeance was too strong. One dark spirit was dead, killed by its own power turned back on it.

  Now the sun was about to disappear, and the Last Calusa would be able to wreak their vengeance. The outsiders would pay for what they did.

  Suddenly, the wards were shattered. The Last Calusa were briefly stunned by this, as none in this world of ignorance could possibly have the power to do that, and the dark spirit that the Last Calusa had not killed was too weakened by their own attack on it.

  When the Last Calusa went to the source of the attack, they saw the dead soul. Brother to one of the sacrifices, the Last Calusa saw that he was tainted by the dark spirits, who had already
claimed his life for their own. The Last Calusa could not sacrifice him, so they left him.

  Now, though, the dead soul had changed. The eye souls of many flowed within him, and they all had the stink of the dark spirit.

  The Last Calusa's belief that none knew of the spirit world in this time and place was apparently a false one.

  But vengeance needed to be satisfied. The many dead cried out for it, and their song sang through the Last Calusa.

  They sang that song to the Three Gods, and they began the dance.

  Dean saw what the Last Calusa was doing, and said, "Nuh-uh, Tonto. No rain dance for you."

  Combat instincts that came, not just from Dean and a lifetime of training by John Winchester, ex-Marine, but also from the spirits of dozens of naval officers, not to mention former artillery officer Harry S Truman, all became focused into a single blast of spiritual energy, and Dean took it and threw it at the Last Calusa.

  It had no effect.

  "Screw this," Dean said, and did it again. Still, the Last Calusa continued their dance and their chant, unaffected.

  Jonathan Gomez's spirit whispered into Dean's ear. Violence without passion doesn't mean nothin'. It's just anger that's all over the place.

  Heeding the poet's advice, Dean brought forth Mel Fisher's passion for treasure seeking, Bonnie's passion for playing music, Jonathan's passion for his poetry, Hemingway's passion for the many loves of his life, and more.

  Again, he struck the Last Calusa.

  Though they continued the dance, the Last Calusa did stumble, both physically and verbally.

  Lightning crackled across the twilight sky, and clouds came rolling in seemingly from nowhere.

  Christ, it really was a rain dance.

  Raising their arms to the darkening sky, the Last Calusa bellowed, "It begins!"

  "Like hell." The protective instincts of Truman, who wanted to keep his people safe, of Hemingway, who wanted to safeguard the lives of soldiers when he drove the ambulance, of Captain Naylor, who always put the crews of his wreckers before himself, and of Dean his own self toward Sam came to the fore, and Dean was able to create wards of his own around Sam and the others under the tarp.

  Thunder boomed, echoing off the sea, even as the lightning struck Dean's wards—but did not penetrate them.

  Turning to face Dean through their freaky mask, the Last Calusa said, "You will not deny us our vengeance!"

  "Watch me." The passion, the combativeness, the protectiveness, Dean wrapped it up all into a ball and thrust it at the Last Calusa, who stumbled backward away from the construction site. Dean moved forward, the spirits flowing through him, and he kept at it. Truman's surety that dropping one atom bomb would not be enough, the soldier's instinct to make sure that the enemy was well and truly defeated, Dean's own knowledge that you had to make sure the creature of the night you fought was all dead, not just mostly dead, all combined to make him hammer away at the Last Calusa.

  The lightning and thunder crashed down all around them, and a hard rain started to pelt South Street. Dean couldn't feel it touch his person, but he could sense the power of the storm, see it strike the pavement and the dirt with more intensity than even a typical Florida rainstorm generally managed. So sudden was the onslaught of the rain that Dean hesitated for only the briefest of seconds.

  Then came the pain.

  Dean had suffered plenty of pain in his life. He'd been beaten up, beat down, shot at, stabbed, cut, electrocuted, punched, kicked, bit, thrown across more rooms than he could count, and run over by a Mack truck.

  If you combined all that pain, it was only a fraction of what Dean felt now. The flip side of feeling everything like this was that—well, he really did feel everything. Perception was magnified, and so was agony.

  No matter how bad it got, though, he refused to let the protection for Sam and the others falter. It didn't matter if he died in the effort—he was dead anyhow—but that sonofabitch wasn't taking Sam with him.

  And then the pain grew worse, in tandem with the intensity of the rain. It was coming down hard enough to dent the roofs of the police cruisers (but not, Dean dimly but proudly noted, the Impala's).

  Despair started to overwhelm him, and that, too, was made worse by the spirits of the dead. Hemingway's manic depressiveness that led to his suicide, Althea's devastation at being gang-raped and no one believing her that led to her suicide, the degeneration of José as AIDS ravaged his body, the terror of Caleb when the church condemned him to death, all combined with Dean's own usually hidden despair over his inevitable trip to hell to crush him.

  He almost gave in.

  Sam...

  Dean shoved the despair into the back of his mind where he kept his own fears and doubts, and instead tapped into Bonnie's music, Jonathan's poetry, Mel's obsession, Hemingway's lust for life, and fought back.

  It wasn't enough.

  Crap. Where'd he get this power from?

  And only then did Dean realize that the Last Calusa had that power all along—he just hadn't cut loose on Dean at first.

  But Dean refused to give up. He drew upon the stubbornness of Truman, who spent most of his political career not being taken seriously, of Hemingway, whose obstinacy cost him more than one marriage, of Bonnie, who dealt with all the tribulations of being a woman in a male-dominated art, of José, who kept his chirpy optimism throughout most of his dying days, of Jonathan, who never gave up the dream of being a famous poet even though he died a janitor, of Caleb, who never let go of his anger and frustration. And he drew on his own stubbornness, which could be a wonder to behold.

  All of that, he fed into keeping Sam safe. That was what was important.

  Then the pain increased again, and Dean screamed to the heavens, the rain pelting into his open mouth...

  Bobby Singer had seen a lot in his life, but nothing quite like this before. All of his hairs—on his head under his ball cap, his beard, the back of his neck—were standing on end.

  He stood on the sidewalk facing the tableau, across the street from the construction site, parallel to where the demon was hovering over the pentagram. To the right, Dean was fighting the Last Calusa.

  All three were glowing. A line of spiritual energy no thicker than a fishing line connected the demon to Dean. It had gotten dark in a hurry thanks to the rainstorm the Last Calusa called down on them, and all the nearby streetlights were out, but South Street was lit up like a Christmas tree. The glow around Kat was a fire orange color, as was the link between her and Dean. Dean himself was more red. In both cases, the flame-related color probably had something to do with the origins of the demon's power.

  The glow around the Last Calusa was blue. Bobby had no idea what that meant...

  Two things had Bobby worried.

  The first was that Dean appeared to be losing. He'd gained the upper hand for about half a second, but the Last Calusa came from behind in a hurry.

  Dean's scream was as soul-chilling a sound as Bobby had ever heard. And that was against some mighty stiff competition. Worse, the glow around him dimmed to a fainter, lighter red, while the Last Calusa's became a cobalt blue.

  However, the second thing was the bigger concern. Bobby had seen Dean come back from farther down in a fight, and he was willing to hang on to a hope that he might still triumph.

  But then he took another gander at Kat, who was not looking at all well. Blood was trickling out of her nose and eyes and mouth. Her silky brown hair was getting stiff and strawlike. Blisters started to break out on her arms and stomach and legs.

  The demon was burning out her host. And while she could always get a new one—Bobby himself was charmed against it, but he wouldn't be surprised if the demon had kept a human nearby in reserve—the break the demon would have to take to leave Kat and enter the new host would likely be fatal to Dean.

  And there was always the possibility that Bobby's charm wouldn't work, and the demon would possess him.

  The notion chilled Bobby something fierce. There wasn't mu
ch that scared Bobby anymore, but that was on the short list. He would rather die than go the way of his wife, of Sam, of Meg... Bobby kept the Colt ready. And kept himself ready for whatever might come.

  Sam broke completely free right before he heard his brother scream.

  He'd heard Dean's taunting arrival on the scene, and from the sounds of it, he had some kind of mystical mojo on his side. Oh God, did he actually take up Fedra on her offer? Urged on by this thought, and by his success in moving one hand, Sam pushed hard against the Last Calusa's force, and eventually fell face-first onto the ground. He'd been still for so long that the rough taste of dirt was actually pleasant.

  The cops and lab techs were still immobilized. "What'd you do?" "How'd you do that?" "Christ, get us outta here, willya?"

  Sam clambered to his feet and moved as if to run toward the tarp, but just as quickly as he'd freed himself he was trapped again. He was stuck in midrun, and his body started to slowly move back into position in the circle with the others.

  "Oh no you don't," Sam said through gritted teeth as he fought against the Last Calusa, trying to will his long legs not to move, to stand still, to do what he wanted.

  Blinding pain ripped through his skull, much like the headaches he used to get with his visions, as he tried to fight against the Last Calusa. Somewhere during this, it had started raining, hard, and the staccato rhythm of the rain slapping against the tarp echoed in Sam's ears in time with the pounding in his head.

  Then he heard Dean scream.

  "Dean!" Sam cried, even though he doubted that his brother could hear him. But he used the anguish of his cry to egg himself onward, to push against the Last Calusa.

  And then he fell forward once again, as did all the others.

  "God, I can move!" "How the hell—?" "Ow, my leg!" "How'd that happen?"